


Episode Tags and Missing Scenes

by MDJensen



Category: Salvation (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, More tags to be added, episode tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Exactly what it says ^^1) Post ep 5. Liam has the freak-out he frankly deserves to have.2) Post ep 10. Darius has had a terrible day; he ends up at Grace's for some wine and cuddles. (Seriously, just cuddles.)3) Pre-series. Harris Edwards receives some seriously disturbing news.





	1. Post Ep 5

**Author's Note:**

> Well it's been quite literally ages since I've posted anything. Life has been hectic to say the least. I've tried to carve out time to continue work on my musketeers fics-- and I have, though it's slow going-- but I've once again followed Santi to a new fandom, and I've been amusing myself with little post-ep snippets when I have the time. Only one is up for now but there are three more almost finished :) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This first one is post ep 5.

Grace pulls Liam against her; for a moment all she’s aware of is his shaking, and the slickness of his bloody hands against her neck. She glances at Darius, who offers no aid. The other twenty-some people on the tarmac are more focused on the fact that the Russians just stole their top-secret tech, but Grace has an armful of astrophysicist and, apparently, she’s the only one who’s going to look after him.

“Liam,” she murmurs. “Just try to focus on my voice, okay? Are you hurt?”

It takes a second for Liam to answer. “No.”

“So this is-- Croft’s blood?”

“Grace,” Liam sobs, “I-- I ki-- oh my god--”

“Liam?”

“’m’onna puke,” he whimpers, and pulls away, windmilling, off balance.

“It’s okay,” Grace soothes, and finds herself repeating it, over and over, as she helps Liam stagger away from the others.  “It’s okay, it’s okay”-- again and again as Liam coughs a few times and then throws up all over the tarmac.

“Nobody’s looking,” she adds, as he pukes again, which is the honest truth. At this point she’s not sure Liam cares but he might-- she would-- and it gives her something to say, at any rate.

Liam doesn’t reply. Instead he makes a few ugly noises, spits, and then finally straightens; he reaches up to wipe his mouth, but seems to remember, just in time, about the blood on his hands.

He closes his eyes, bites back a moan.

Grace holds him up with one arm, and wipes his mouth with the opposite sleeve.  Finished, she wipes his nose too. Genius he may be, arguably a player in the most important game of all time, but right now Liam just looks like a kid, not all too much older than Zoe. Scared as hell and beyond miserable, with tears and snot crawling down his ashen face.

“Grace, I killed him,” he huffs out, toneless, breathless. “I killed Professor Cr-croft. I-- he had a gu-gun-- he was gonna kill me ‘f I didn’t--”

“You’re safe now, Liam--”

“You have to believe me!” Liam weeps. “I didn’t wanna-- want to kill him but he-- he was gonna kill me-- oh my god _I shot him_!” Grace pulls him in again, and he bursts into raucous sobbing, hiding his face against her neck.

“I tried to s-save him! I tried to-- to put pressure on-- where he was bl-bleeding, but--”

“ _Shh_ , I believe you. I believe you, honey.”

“I trie’ to s-s-sa-sa--”

Grace shushes him, then looks up when somebody touches her arm; before her she finds one of the soldiers, holding out a water bottle and a small, clean-looking towel. She nods her thanks, then pulls away from Liam. “Hey, drink this, okay? Can you take a drink?” Liam doesn’t reply but lets her open the bottle and hold it to his mouth; he takes a few gulps, then pulls back.

Grace wets the towel and cleans his face, then his hands, as best she can. The crying doesn’t end but at least it quiets as she works, slower tears and fewer sobs, as Liam visibly pushes down on his horror.

The blood’s come off as much as it will without soap. Grace folds the towel to expose a clean surface, then wets it again and blots it against the back of Liam’s neck. He gives a little hiccup, wipes his nose, and goes still.

“’m okay,” he breathes, and Grace takes the towel away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, um. Um. Throw up. Or cry on you.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” Grace says, feeling her voice go a little high. “Liam, are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay. If you’re not--”

“I know.” He clears his throat. “We have to go.”

“Can you walk?”

And the same kid who bawled into her shoulder three minutes ago goes a little cold now. “Yeah. Yeah, I can walk, Grace. Let’s go.”

But Grace keeps her hand at the small of his back, and he doesn’t protest.


	2. Post Ep 10

About five minutes after the president collapses on live TV, Grace’s phone goes off. It’s work. Who else would it be? She’s the press secretary, after all, and there’s a whole lot of press secretary-ing needed over at the white house right now.

Good thing she’s only had the one drink, then.

She picks up her phone and swipes to answer in the same motion-- and so she’s already holding it to her ear by the time she processes the name that’s popped up.

It’s not work; it’s Darius.

“I know,” she huffs, as a greeting. “But whatever you and I are going to do about this, Darius, it’s going to wait until the morning.”

“Ah. Yes. Dramatic, wasn’t it? Are you headed over there now?”

“You know what? I’m not. I’m not the only person who’s allowed to deal with the press. I’m-- no, I’m not going over there.”

“Okay. Are you-- going to sleep, then?”

“Not necessarily. Why?”

Darius pauses. “Would you mind if I came over for a few minutes?”

And now she’s just as confused as she is annoyed, as she is overwhelmed, and overtired. “Is this a save the world thing or a-- a booty call thing?” she blurts.

And immediately regrets it.

“A friend thing?” His voice sounds small in a way she hasn’t heard before. “I just could use one. If you have a minute.”

Right. Because just about an hour ago, Darius was stabbed in the back by his noxious uncle and watched his life’s work go up in smoke-- all in front of Tess.

“Yeah. Sorry. No, of course, Darius. Come over whenever.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Grace. I’ll leave in a minute, then.”

“Bye,” Grace sighs, and hangs up. If it’s not one crisis to manage, it’s another, though Darius Tanz does happen to be better company than a roomful of squawking journalists.

She tosses the phone aside. Then she gets dressed-- not nicely, because she doesn’t want Darius to think she dressed up for him-- but in yoga pants and a fitted enough t-shirt. She finishes off the wine too, because why not. It’s half an hour or so before she hears the doorbell, and goes to answer it.

Darius looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, though he looked lively as ever just a few hours ago; she steps back to let him in, and he comes inside almost timidly. She shuts the door.

“Before anything else,” he says, not looking at her, “I-- I need to apologize. I threw a tantrum in front of you, and-- ten seconds later I flat-out ignored you, and I’m--”

But at the sight of him, the last of her aggravation has disintegrated. Grace grabs Darius to her and hugs him, tightly; he stiffens for a moment, then melts against her as though he’d never felt a kindly touch in his life. His breath is hot against her neck, and it comes in a careful tempo.

“First of all,” Grace murmurs, into his hair. “First of all, Darius, you _excused_ yourself before you threw a tantrum, which, by the way, lasted all of five seconds. So that’s not even worth mentioning. Second--” and here Grace pauses to breathe. “You had-- a _miserable_ day, and I left you hanging out of some petty jealousy. So _I’m_ sorry.”

“That’s-- completely unnecessary.”

“Yours was too. So are we done then?”

He snorts a laugh, and sags a little more.

“Darius,” Grace sighs, and just barely stops herself from crooning about how badly he needed a hug. She pulls away.

“Come in. Sit. If you want to we could talk about it, or we could just-- get drunk about it. I’m halfway already with that one,” she notes. Darius smiles. She’s old enough by now to recognize stupid and smitten on a man’s face, though she’s apparently not old enough to recognize when a man is stupid and smitten and yet still so deeply in love with his ex that Grace herself can fade into the background like--

She stops herself. That’s not the point, at least not right now.

“Sit,” she repeats; she reaches past him to lock the door, then leads him into the living room and plops down on the couch. Darius settles beside her.

“Do you mind--?” He gestures vaguely. It takes Grace a moment to realize that he’s pointing at the afghan on the back of the couch; when she does, she looks over to the thermostat instinctively.

“It’s seventy-two in here,” she notes, though she also passes him the blanket.

“I know. I get-- cold. When I’m upset. It’s a quirk.”

He almost seems self-conscious of this, and Grace finds herself unexpectedly charmed. “That’s actually sort of adorable,” she admits, watching as he wraps the afghan around his shoulders, clutches the edges to his chest. “I usually just get a headache. Less cute.”

“Lazlo would get the shits,” Darius says. He blinks, startled by his own words; then he bursts out laughing. “Damn it. Poor Lazlo. Sorry, Laz. It just-- it wasn’t very becoming, you know? Of this tough little son of a bitch. Damn, I’m _freezing_.”

Grace touches his shoulder as she stands, goes to the hall closet and gets the big downy comforter they keep there. It’s got cartoony flowers on it, one of Zoe’s old ones. But she figures Darius is not the kind of guy who’d mind-- and she doesn’t care if he does anyway.

“Here,” she huffs, covering him with it before sitting again. “That afghan’s mostly for show.”

“Breaking out the big guns,” Darius notes; he flashes a tired smile at her before toeing his shoes off and pulling his legs up under himself so they can get warm as well. “Thanks.” He lets his head fall back and rubs his eyes; Grace tucks the comforter a little tighter at his hip.

“Do you want something warm to drink? Tea?”

Still tilted back towards the ceiling, he shakes his head. “You’ve had a bad day, too, Grace. I don’t mean to lean on you-- well, no, I suppose that’s exactly why I’m here. But I don’t want to lean too hard.”

“Darius, I offered you _tea_. Although I appreciate your concern.”

He’s completely under the blanket by now, gripping the edges to his chin; the sight is hilarious, but it’s spoiled by Darius himself looking absolutely forlorn.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Grace prompts. She pulls her feet up, too, sitting sideways, facing Darius. Darius glances up at her, then looks away again.

“I just-- I don’t know why he hates me so much. My uncle.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I understand him. What his-- deal is.”

“What his _deal_ is?” Darius teases.

“I don’t understand what’s his problem.”

“I wish I knew. All of the stuff that happened with Tess, with my not wanting to be his business partner-- I was in my twenties by that point. And I can remember him hating me a decade before that.”

“When you were a kid?”

“Mm. I mean, I can’t deny: I’d never be anything if he hadn’t paid for my education. But it’s strange. It’s a strange thing to begin with, to take your-- drunk brother’s freak son and send him through school. Even stranger to do that but then still beat me down every step of the way.”

Darius is staring at the coffee table now, so lost he’s forgotten to be cold. The blankets are slipping from his shoulders and he hasn’t noticed.

 “I remember the first Christmas I lived with him, he said I wasn’t going home. Fine, I didn’t argue. I knew tickets were expensive, and I _didn’t_ know how rich he really was then. But he-- he wouldn’t let me _call_. I asked to call my mom and he told me I couldn’t. And when I tried anyway he shut the phones off. I locked myself in my room and-- cried my eyes out. And then later when he saw I’d been crying he told the staff not to let me have any food. Sent me back to school the next day, even though there were two weeks left of holiday. Not that I minded, because they fed me and let me call my mom.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen. Not exactly a child, I grant you.”

“No, that’s still a child. I’m sorry. Homesick on Christmas sucks.”

Darius smiles a little. “I really didn’t mean to make it sound too pathetic. Poor little rich boy. I just don’t understand why he’d put all this money into me-- I’ve paid it all back, by the way-- put all this money into me but not give a _damn_ about me? How does that _work_?”

“I don’t know. He sounds-- like a man who needs to be in control. Of everything. At all times.”

Darius is silent for a moment. Then a massive shudder rolls over his body and he tucks the blankets up higher again; Grace reaches under the blankets to hold his hand. In doing this she brushes against his arm, feels goosebumps.

“Okay,” she says, squeezing their fingers together. “No tea. You feel too guilty for tea. But I am going to have some more wine, so would you like some too?”

Darius squeezes back, then lets her go. “I would have a glass of wine if you were going to, Grace Barrows.”

In the warm, orangey light of her living room his eyes are black as midnight; his angular face is made moreso by shadows, but he looks softer, too. Open, exposed. And not just because he’s huddled beneath a massive blanket, though that has something to do with it too. He looks like a man who really has had an unspeakably awful day. Utterly depleted, and a little bit broken.

Grace goes into the kitchen and pours them both generous glasses of red. “It’s not fancy,” she warns, when she’s gone back in and is handing it to him. “If I spend fourteen dollars on a bottle of wine, I’ve spent a lot.”

“I’m not a wine snob,” Darius assures her, tilting his head and smiling. “I _am_ a whiskey snob. To be fair. But I am not a wine snob.” He sips it.

“Merlot,” Grace says, because she doesn’t have anything else to say.

Darius doesn’t reply. For a minute or two they just sit together, drinking their wine; exhaustion slowly rolls back in, and Grace fights hard against the urge to curl up next to Darius, maybe even go under the blankets with him.

“Do you ever wish you just didn’t know?” she asks, at last. “That you’d never gone to speak at MIT, never met Liam?”

Darius takes another drink before he answers. “Maybe not before today. But, today. Yes.” He sighs.

“You?”

“Every damn day. So, you’re doing better than I am.”

“Even after Lazlo died, I-- I reminded myself of the good we were doing. He’d have-- he’d’ve given his life, to save the world. He _did_. What I mean is, he would have been willing. But, if I didn’t know, if I had never gotten involved-- Lazlo would be alive. I would never have seen Tess again. I would never have seen my uncle again; I would never have lost my-- my company.” He pauses. “You know, in some sick way I wanted everyone to find out tonight. Because then I could tell them why. The board, I could tell them why a billion dollars was missing from the books. And like flipping a switch I’d go from-- suspect CEO to hero of the day. Sorry,” he adds, burying his face in the comforter. “Sorry. That’s-- sorry.”

Grace moves a little closer, and strokes through his hair. “In some way I wanted it to happen, too,” she muses. “I don’t want Zoe to live with-- knowing this. But I also don’t want her to think-- hm. I was going to say, _I don’t want her to think I’m keeping things from her_. But I am. But I want her to know _why_.”

Darius’ fingers catch hers, and he squeezes her hand. “I can’t imagine,” he whispers, “the burden of knowing-- when you have a child to think about.”

“It’s a pretty big burden no matter what,” Grace replies; the smile feels weak on her face.

Darius downs the last of his wine. Grace lets go of his hand to take his glass, finish her own, and set both glasses on the end table. Then, because she’s tipsy and sad and the world is possibly ending, she gives in and crawls under the comforter with Darius.

He doesn’t pause even a moment before wrapping his arms around her, and Grace puts her head on his shoulder and her hand on his belly. “You’re shivering,” she whispers.

“But, in a really manly way. Right?”

“Right.”

Darius sighs. Pressed against him as she is, Grace not only hears but _feels_ how sticky, how unsteady it is.

“Hey. What is it?”

He buries his face into her hair, and for a minute she thinks he’s not going to answer. Then he sighs again, a little lighter. “I really, really miss Lazlo. I-- _fucking_ miss him. I’ll be fine, doing what I need to do, and then it just comes out of nowhere. And it hurts so much that I can hardly stay standing.”

Grace is pretty sure he’s not crying, but she’s equally sure that that could change at any moment. She rubs her thumb against his stomach, though she’s not sure if she’s trying to help him relax or telling him to go ahead and grieve.

He doesn’t really do either; he keeps shivering, and keeps not-crying.

“Okay,” she says, pushing at his shoulder. “You can be the little spoon this time. Come on.” She shoves gently until Darius gets the picture and lies down, careful to stay buried under the blankets. He curls in on himself, and Grace squeezes between him and the back of the sofa.

“Five minutes,” Darius mutters. “And I’ll get out of here so you can go to bed.”

“That’s funny. I was planning on sleeping like this.”

“You don’t have to--”

“We’ve done it before.”

“Grace.” Darius cranes around to look at her over his shoulder. “We don’t have to.”

“Darius.” She mimics the insistence in his tone. “If you’d rather be alone, I’m not offended. But if you’d rather have company, here I am, here’s my sofa, and I’m inviting you to stay the night.”

His back rises and falls in another long sigh. “Understood-- and appreciated.”

“Are you any warmer?”

“Mm. I am, a little.”

“Okay. Try to go to sleep, okay? You’ll have a brilliant plan in the morning for all of this, if I know you.”

“If you know me,” Darius echoes, sounding sleepier by the second. “A little bit more, after today, I guess. Now you know I’ve got a temper.”

That he feels genuinely bad for shouting in front of her just makes Grace hug him closer. He puts his hand over hers, where it rests on his waist. “Not to mention the shivering.”

“I’m not shivering anymore,” he whispers, and Grace realizes that he’s right.

“Good,” she hums. “Then sleep now, Darius. I’ll keep you warm.”


	3. Pre-Series

He's not sure how long he's been staring into the mirror above the sink when Mark Rossi stumbles in and all but collapses in the first stall. The sound of vomiting echoes off tile and steel.

Harris turns on the faucet, wets his hands, and presses them to his face for what must be the sixth or seventh time. They're shaking. The sound of somebody else getting sick is making him feel sick, though up until a minute ago it had just been numbness. Just the muteness of a brain not processing. 

Nine months. Nine fucking months. 

Water starts pouring at another sink, and Harris looks up to see Mark rinsing his mouth out. They lock eyes, and Mark gives a miserable shrug. Harris only stares. For all that Mark is the one with puke on his tie, Harris can't help but think he might be taking it a little bit better. At least he's capable of movement. 

He watches sideways in the mirror while the man washes his face, washes his hands, throws away his tie, washes his hands again. Harris’ own hands are bracing on the counter now. Mark finishes up and pats Harris’ back as he leaves, and in all this time Harris’ feet have not moved an inch.

_If the collision is not averted our team estimates a roughly ninety-seven percent probability that it will cause the end of life on this planet._

Then the bathroom door opens again. It’s somebody Harris doesn’t know-- somebody _who doesn’t know_ \-- and the guy goes over to the urinals and takes a piss like the world isn’t ending.

Finally Harris’ feet cooperate, take him back to his office.

Just because he’s walking, though, doesn’t mean he’s pulled himself together; his knees still aren't working right and it feels like there's water in his ears. He should probably sit down. He should probably put his head between his legs, honestly-- he’s never fainted before but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

He sits.

He does not put his head between his legs.

Instead he drinks some water and answers a few emails that have nothing to do with the apocalypse, and by the time somebody knocks on his door he’s present enough of mind to call them calmly in.

It’s Grace. Harris fights not to sag bodily as he processes just how badly he wants her to hold him right now. 

"Hey,” he says, as she comes over.

"Hey." He feels Grace start to frown as she kisses him, then she pulls back and kisses his forehead too. "Ooh. Are you feeling okay?"

"Hm?"

"You're really warm." It's her hand on his cheek now. "Warm and clammy. You feel like a tropical rainforest."

"And do you find it appealing?"

She pulls a face, and he tugs her down for another kiss. "No. I bet you're a nightmare when you're sick."

"I'm not sick, Grace. Just a couple of sleepless nights." He closes his eyes to illustrate, opens them at once because all he sees is fire. Dust. 

"Well, you look like crap." Grace kisses his brow once more. "Company tonight? Maybe I could help you sleep.”

"Where's Zoe?"

Oh god, Zoe might never see her twenties. 

"Weekend in New York," Grace replies. "With one of her many school clubs."

“I’ll grill us some steaks.”

“Or maybe takeout?” Grace suggests, eyes laughing. “I’m not sure you should be around open flames right now.”

“Takeout,” Harris sighs. “Thai?”

“Sure.”

And she’s gone a minute later, but at least Harris has this to hold onto: the world may end in less than a year but tonight he’ll have sticky rice and wine and probably sex with Grace Barrows.

*

It’s scabbing over by the time he gets home. He’ll say this for himself: his blood clots fast. He takes a shower and puts on the fitted black jeans he knows Grace likes, and sets the table with plates and a nice Riesling. Grace beats the delivery person by less than ten minutes. And they have dinner, a nice normal dinner, then curl up on the sofa and kiss for a while.

They stop sooner than the usually would. Grace sits up to reach the remote and Harris lies down in her lap; it’s usually the other way around but Grace doesn’t seem to mind. She strokes his hair and turns on the news. And slowly Harris remembers that he’s trained for this shit exactly-- well maybe not exactly-- but he’s trained to handle the tough shit, and yes he’s been something of a wreck today but tomorrow he’ll get up and go to work and they’ll figure this out. They’ll work this out.

Then the news runs a little story about the Olympics and Grace mentions casually how she’s always wanted to go, it’s on her bucket list, maybe she’ll finally get to Tokyo in 2020.

The scab rips off.

Harris’ vision swims but he is absolutely, _utterly_ unsure if his body wants to cry or just pass out. Or maybe go the way of Mike Rossi. Increasingly worried it’ll be this one he huffs a half-coherent excuse and stumbles to the bathroom.

He doesn’t throw up. Instead he washes his face and ends up staring at himself in the mirror again, only this time he is less numb, more utterly terrified.

When he gets back to the sofa, Grace hugs him close. “Thought you were feeling better.”

“I was feelin’ better.”

“What’s wrong, Harris?” Grace pulls back. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“I’m okay,” he swears, rubbing his face. “Maybe I am a little under the weather, after all.”

And even though it’s Grace who first confused his symptoms for illness, she doesn’t believe that now. He can tell.

"I'm, uh--"

On the verge of tears? On the verge of falling apart?

"I think I'm goin' to bed," Harris finishes, lamely. He stands. 

"Harris." Grace slides forward, perches on the edge of the sofa. He turns back to her.

"Do you want me to go?” she asks, face open, not angry. “I promise it's fine if you do."

"No. No, I know I'm not great company right now but-- I don't want you to go."

"Okay. Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?"

"No. Grace. No, I-- I want you with me. I wanna hold you."

“Okay. I’m just gonna call Zoe, and I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

So he goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, then buries himself under the blankets and curls up on his side. He stays there only a minute before getting up and taking a sleeping pill.

When he goes back into the bedroom Grace is there, and he turns off the lights and climbs in beside her. She must have brushed her teeth in the hall bath, because she already smells like toothpaste. It’s a sharp smell, and makes him nauseous again; nevertheless he tucks up beside her.

Fuck. Fuck. This was not a good idea. He should go for a run, or at least take another shower, because he’s never going to sleep. How the fuck can he sleep? Grace will never go to Tokyo for the 2020 Olympics. The world will end far before then. The world will end before his own 43rd birthday.

Grace’s voice in the darkness is gentle, and pulls him back.

"Harris, please talk to me. I’m really starting to worry.”

"It's nothing. It's not-- a thing."

"You're _crying_ ," Grace murmurs, reaching out and wiping a tear from the side of his nose. "Is it-- I mean, can you talk about it? Clearance-wise?"

Too damn smart for her own good, so Harris fishes around like a madman inside his own head. "Yeah. No, no, it’s, it's nothing like that. I just-- I just, uh-- I miss my mom?"

And it's suddenly, violently true. And even though it’s not why he started crying it’s the thing that pushes him over the edge, and he hides against Grace’s shoulder and breaks down in quiet sobs.

"Sorry," he weeps, gripping her arm. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Harris," Grace soothes. "How long?"

Nine months.

 _Nine_ _months_. 

"H-how long?"

"Has it been? Since she passed?"

Oh. 

"Four years next month," he says, honestly. 

"Would you like to tell me about her?"

"Not--" he gulps. "Not right now."

"Okay." Grace rolls onto her back and coaxes him a little closer, and strokes through his hair as Harris curls against her. And cries. Cries until he honestly just runs out of tears, because this is both the first time and the last time he’s going to let himself break down over this, so he’s getting the most bang for his buck, as it were. 

By the time he'd done he's got a headache. Stomachache too. And he feels no better-- not that he'd expected to-- but he does feel everything scabbing up again.

“Holy crap,” he huffs. “Sorry.”

Grace hands him a few tissues from the nightstand, then kisses his hair and slips out of bed, leaving him to blow his nose. She goes into the bathroom, and Harris hears water running. Then she's back with a washcloth, cool and damp, blotting his face with so much gentility he wants to cry again. 

“Is there something I can get you?” she asks, looking soft in the darkness. “Tea? Bath?”

“No. Grace, have I ever told you-- I quite literally don’t deserve you?”

“Hey. You’re the only one who thinks this is a big deal, okay? Sweetie, you’re human. And you needed to cry, so you cried. That’s _okay_.”

For one strange moment Harris actually forgets what upset him in the first place; in the moment he’s a normal guy with normal guy problems, not privy to news of the fucking apocalypse. It’s nice. But it doesn’t last long.

It does, however, give him an idea: a tangible thing that he can do tonight, that can’t be taken from him even if the world does end. He’s been meaning to anyway. Now seems right.

“Grace?”

“Mm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He laughs, and sniffles. “No, not like that. Not something else. Just something I wanted to say.”

“Okay?”

"I love you,” Harris whispers. “Grace, I love you. And I'm not just sayin' that because you put up with me crying like a two year old. I'm sayin' it because-- time's short. You know?"

"I know," Grace murmurs. (She doesn't know.) She cups a hand under his jaw and kisses him. "I love you, too."

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Crying like a two year old and all. Do you wanna try to sleep now?”

Pill or no pill, he probably won’t be able to, but the thought of lying with Grace in silence is more soothing than he could say. “Yeah,” he whispers, and kisses her again, then settles down with his head on her chest and wills himself to get up and fight tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess it's not just episode tags anymore! Wrote this on the notes app in my phone in five-minute snippets so I hope it's more or less coherent!


End file.
